


Bottoms Up

by darkforetold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:24:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1367173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/pseuds/darkforetold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Last time Cas looked at me like that, I couldn't walk for a week..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bottoms Up

"Dean."

Dean snorted, snapping awake, and caught his research book before it tumbled to the floor. “ _What?_ ”

Sam frowned at him over his laptop. "Were you asleep?"

"No." Dean straightened in his chair. "I was researching."

“With your eyes closed?”

“My eyes weren’t closed,” he grumbled. “Mind your own business.”

Sam rolled his eyes, then turned his attention back to his laptop. More researching. Another goddamn case. Dean exhaled sharply and looked down at his book. The words wouldn’t make any sense on a normal day. Doubly so after he’d spent a night tossing and turning, catching two hours of sleep. Sentences ran together, squiggly and blurry, looking more like an ancient finger painting than text in an tome about myths and legends. 

Beyond the haze, Sam clacked away on his computer. The sound was rhythmic, almost… soothing. He’d close his eyes for a just second. Get in a quick cat nap before Sam ever noticed. Dean stifled a yawn and dropped his chin to his chest. Closed his eyes to rest them. He wasn’t sleeping. Not… at all…

Wings.

Quiet. 

Then—

"Dean, why is Cas staring at you like that?"

He jerked. Blinked his tired eyes open. Cas staring at him? He was always staring. "Come on, man," he grumbled. "He always—" Dean looked up. _Oh_. "Sam, you need to leave."

"Dude, I’m researching." Sam looked at Dean, then Cas. His eyes went big. " _Wait_. Are you going to—"

“Man, I’m telling you, unless you want to see—“

“Shutupshutup.”

Sam ran out with his papers and laptop as if he’d seen Lucifer himself. Swallowing hard, Dean stood up slowly, pulling the chair out in front of him—a feeble attempt to put some sort of barrier between them. Cas simply stared, then his eyes began to glow blue. Impossibly blue. There was light, the silhouette of wings splashed on the wall behind him. The son of a bitch was peacocking for him, trying to impress him with his enormous wing span and angelic splendor. Like an… angel mating ritual or some shit. Except it didn’t work on him—mostly.

"Cas," he breathed. "Last time we did this, I couldn't walk for a week."

Cas advanced, narrowing his eyes. He was like a lion, all lethal grace and lithe muscle. Every step Cas took in his direction, he took one, too, his mirror opposite. Dean backed into a bookcase. Nowhere to run. Trapped.

"Can't we do this some other time? Not that... you know, I don't want to... s'just that—"

"This can't wait."

Half-angel, half-human. Most of the mojo, all the human urges. Like sex. At the worst, most inconvenient times. During a hunt? Check. When he was trying to sleep? Check. While Sam was in the same room? Better move fast, Sammy. Didn’t matter the circumstances, if Cas wanted it—

Cas began to move quicker, tipping over the chair, weaving through piles of books and relics like ice water around glaciers. Dean picked his way along the bookcase, quick and efficient. Every step perfectly calculated—right into a stack of books. Dean tried to catch them. They fell anyway. Skittered. Dean froze. Cas looked at the books, then up at him—and smiled. 

After that, everything was a blur.

Books, papers, magazines were swept to the floor. He was bent over before he knew it, pinned down at the knot of his spine with a hand too strong and firm to be fair. The glossy, varnished wood table created pressure points all along his already-sore body. He grunted. It hurt. If Cas cared, he didn't show it.

"Cas," he growled. "I'm too tired. Can't we—"

“Shh.”

He would’ve struggled if he normally didn’t love it; his body heat laying over him like a satin sheet, the way his lips brushed against his ear. A hungry puff of air shot against his face as Cas pressed his hips into him, hard cock against his ass. Cas needed this. Badly. Whether he himself wanted this or not, _no_ wasn’t an answer Cas would likely take—and he almost didn’t mind. 

Almost.

Cas straightened up and grabbed a hold of his hips, jerking them back, reaching around to unbuckle his belt, unzip his jeans. Too tired to argue, Dean let him. His jeans and boxers fell down to his ankles, his ass up for grabs. To soften it up, instead of just _take, take, take_ , Cas left a kiss against the nape of his neck. Then, without so much as a warning, foreplay even, he shoved right in. Loose and slick—all thanks to angel mojo—his ass took in every inch Cas had to give him, spreading and stretching wide to accommodate. It didn’t matter how tired he was, how sore or how late at night Cas came calling, he always felt… complete when Cas slid into him. Whole. Dean groaned despite himself.

When Cas began to thrust, Dean had no choice but to hold onto his edge of the table. Hard, firm jerks, pushed his thighs into the wood to the point where it hurt. Dean winced and grunted. The minor aches and pains stopped him from getting lost in it—the pleasure, the rough way Cas handled him. His own hard cock caught against the varnish, didn’t slip and slide, or feel good at all. When Dean made a move for it, shifting a little, Cas pinned him down again, like a cat pawing a mouse. Dean growled. Cas pounded his ass harder. All he could do was hold on. Miraculously, he fit a hand between himself and the table, fisting his dick. Cas’ thrusts shot him forward, wet cock slipping in his tight fingers. Finally, some fucking enjoyment out of this without all the pain. Dean grumbled out a groan and it was incentive for Cas’ hungry hips, boring down onto him, relentless like a vice. Thrusts harder, rougher. Heavy panting in his ear. Dean spread his legs wider. Cas tangled fingers in his hair. They found a rhythm, then Cas stopped paying careful attention—and that was when it began to hurt.

With every savage thrust, his thighs slammed into the table, skin bruised, and his ass was sore. Cas had been holding back like he always did, but wasn’t now. Too lost in it to give a fuck, maybe. To fight back, Dean latched onto his edge of the table again, using it for leverage, and threw his hips back. Their bodies crashed together at the crossroads between bliss and pain. Over and over again, the thrusts, the violent jolts to his body—it sent tremors of pleasure through him, inside and out. Fuck if it wasn’t turning him on, making him harder now than he was when this whole thing started. Cas groaned behind him and he knew: he’d turn the tables on Cas’ little game of dominance. He was winning. Then suddenly… it didn’t matter who the fuck was winning. It wasn’t a game, but Cas fucking him raw. Him taking and giving it back—and it felt… fucking amazing. More than amazing. It was—

Cas’ fingers softened against his scalp, massaging instead of pinching and bruising. Dean choked back another noise, turning his head in little circles to rub against the touch. With how uneven, how unsteady Cas was thrusting into him, the quaking of his thighs—Dean clenched as hard as he could and Cas whimpered, took in a sharp breath and—let go. He did, too. 

Then, it was over.

There was a sound of wings. Papers fluttered.

No kiss. No thank you.

Dean exhaled harshly into the varnish, then closed his eyes for a second. He caught a wave of peaceful quiet down, down, down, catching his breath and calming his rapid heartbeat. 

“Fucking angels.”

Literally.

He didn’t bother cleaning himself up. Come dripped down his legs, but—who gave a fuck. Half-heartedly, Dean pulled his pants up, using a sleeve to wipe come off the table. Then sat down. Took a breath, another, and picked up his research book.

Fifteen minutes later, Sam peeked around the corner like a timid mouse. "Is it safe?"

"Define safe."

Sam exhaled sharply through his nose, looked around—probably for Cas—and stepped in. His eyes fell to the mess of books and papers on the floor. Sam looked at him. Warily. Dean flashed him a smile. Narrowing his eyes, Sam eventually took his seat again, slowly, very slowly, as if it’d fall apart under his weight. Dean flipped a page in his book. Sam reached for a loose sheet of paper on the table.

"I wouldn't touch that. In fact..." Dean smirked. "I wouldn't touch anything."

"Ugh, gross, Dean!"

Dean grinned cheekily, shifted his weight, and grunted out a little _ow_.


End file.
